Beach Day
by elev
Summary: "Harold," John mumbles into the beach towel, "put the laptop away." Or, John is working on his tan, Harold a workaholic, and John gets sunburned. Harold helps him spread aloe vera across his back. Written for a tumblr prompt. Trying fluffy Rinch for a challenge.


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Written for shoulditrustyouagain from a Tumblr prompt:

… _the two of them going down to the beach and one getting sunburned really badly so the other slathers them with aloe gel when they get home … John gets sunburned, Harold had already put the aloe gel on the cabana mini fridge on a very weekend away from NYC._

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"Harold," John mumbles into the beach towel, "put the laptop away."

John is drying out the sun, sprawled out on his stomach atop a colorful, luxurious beach towel. He's wearing nothing more than a pair of jewel blue swimming trunks, still damp from the refreshing swim he took a few minutes ago. Water droplets slowly evaporate from his back and legs beneath the warmth of the early afternoon sun.

Next to him, Finch is reclined in a beach chair beneath an umbrella. Finch is wearing more than John; he has a pair of tan shorts and a tastefully subdued Hawaiian shirt. Somehow, his laid-back attire is managing to exude high fashion. (Maybe it's the subtle, complementing pocket square in his breast pocket, or the slim leather sandals, or the fashionable sunglasses, or maybe it's just Harold Finch.) He has a tiny laptop computer balanced on his lap, and the steady tap-tap-tap of his typing cuts right through the relaxing ambiance of the whispering waves behind them.

Finch has barely looked out at the calm waters of the cove or spared a glance at the rocky, fern-laden cliffs behind the beach cabana a few dozen meters to their left. His attention has been focused on the computer for the past fifteen minutes.

And they're supposed to be on _vacation!_

"Almost done," Finch mumbles.

"That's what you said five minutes ago," John points out. "You should stop hacking the Pentagon and come work on your tan with me."

Finch looks distastefully at the sunlit sand surrounding his little oasis of shade. "John, I'm afraid I don't tan well."

"You don't get enough sunlight," John says. "You stay indoors all the time." He rolls over on his back and gazes at Finch, raising his eyebrows. "Come on, a few minutes won't hurt."

"If by 'won't hurt' you mean 'will cause your fair skin to blister and peel in a matter of minutes' then yes, I agree."

"That's why you put on sunscreen. Ten minutes?"

"No."

"Five minutes?" John wheedles.

Finch sighs. "Very well. _After_ I finish this last subroutine."

John sits up and points down the beach on Finch's opposite side. "Woah," he says. "What's _that_?"

Finch rotates slightly in his seat to look, but John manages to snag the laptop out of his hands while he's distracted.

"Mr. Reese—!" Finch protests.

"You need to learn how to vacation, Harold," John says. "Even the Machine says so."

"It does _not_ ," Finch says.

John smirks and rotates the laptop to face him. As Finch watches, a web browser pops up by itself, navigates to a search engine, and types in, one character at a time: HOW TO VACATION. It waits a few seconds, just to drive the point home, before clicking the Search button all by itself.

"I do believe you two have teamed up against me," Finch says, irritation evident in his voice, but a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

John closes the laptop and tucks it safely in their beach bag, ensuring it's out of direct sunlight. "We just want to make sure you unwind, Harold. We're here to relax. The ladies can keep things under control in New York while we enjoy a weekend at the beech."

"I suppose so," Finch says. He carefully rotates in his chair until both of his feet are in the sand. Reese helps him down onto the beach towel, mindful of his stiff leg. The end result is Harold Finch, still dressed to the nines in vacation attire, lying on his back next to a much more scantily clad John Reese.

"You're going to have hilarious tan lines," John points out.

"I plan on soaking up the minimum amount of sun possible, John."

"You could at least kick off your sandals."

Finch rolls his eyes and does so. "There. Satisfactory?"

"Sure," John says. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, happily. Next to him, after a few seconds, Finch does the same.

They stay like that for several minutes.

"Isn't this nice?" John says, encompassing the beach around them with a sweep of his arms. "Nobody getting shot at, nobody getting chased by angry bad guys. Nobody else around for miles. Just us."

"Yes," Finch says softly. Slowly, a smile begins to spread across his face. "Just us. It's—very nice. Tranquil."

"You need to learn to unwind, Harold. It'll do you good."

"I suppose I am entirely too used to the constant danger and excitement that defines our occupation."

"There'll be plenty of that in a week or so," John says. "Just enjoy not having to deal with it now."

"Mmm," Finch says noncommittally.

They stay like that for another minute or two before Finch pushes himself stiffly off the towel.

"Where are you going?" John asks, disappointed.

"I told you, John," Finch says as he staggers back to the safety of the umbrella shade. "I don't tan well."

"I think you're exaggerating."

"I think you're going to get a sunburn."

"Me?" John gives Finch his best charming grin. "I'll have you know, I tan quite handsomely."

"I would much like the handsome tanned body," Finch says, settling back in his chair, "But I worry I will soon be saying, 'I told you so'."

" _Relax_ , Harold..."

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"I told you so," Finch sighs.

It took a few hours for the sunburn to develop. When they first returned to the little beach cabana, John felt fine; it was only later that he noticed his shoulders stinging and peeked under his collar to see how red they were. It wasn't encouraging.

"I might've been a little, uh, overconfident," John admits.

They're in the living room area, which is most of the open space in the cabana. John is sitting at the plain wooden table, his shirt removed, while Finch examines his back. His neck and shoulders are the worst; they're puffy and red and, in a few small spots, blistered. His torso fared better, but not much. His legs, somehow, were affected the least.

"I have something that'll help," Finch says. He limps to the kitchen counter, where a tube of aloe vera is sitting near the door. (John had noticed its conspicuous placement as soon as they returned to the cabana and had rolled his eyes at Finch's paranoid over-preparedness; now he's appreciating it.) When Finch gets back to the table, he pops the lid off the tube and squeezes a sizable dollop out into his hands, rubbing them together. He begins to spread the sappy fluid across John's neck, shoulders, and upper back. The aloe vera stings briefly at first contact, but the sensation soon fades and is replaced by a soothing coolness. John relaxes into Finch's touch.

"Is it helping?" Finch asks.

"Very much," John sighs. He closes his eyes briefly.

"Perhaps in the future, you'll be more inclined to heed my warnings," Finch says warmly. "But we both know that's probably unlikely."

"Probably," John agrees. "But I think I'll remember this one time."

"I should hope so." Finch works his way gradually around John as he spreads the aloe vera, until he's sitting on a chair right in front of John and working on his chest.

"You know, Harold," John says playfully, "if I wasn't sunburned, this would probably be a precursor to something else."

Finch rolls his eyes. "It could be, yes..."

By the time Finch is done, John's skin still glistens in a few spots. The effect is rather tantalizing, but right now Harold is more concerned with making sure John's discomfort is minimized.

"Did I miss anywhere?" he asks.

"I don't think so," John says.

"Excellent. We can apply some more in an hour or two."

"Thanks, Harold," John says softly.

"Any time, John."

John leaves his shirt off for the rest of the night.

Finch isn't complaining.

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 **A/N I've never written Rinch before; how'd I do?**


End file.
